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I’m leaving tomorrow morning at dawn to fly to LA to (finally) meet you. You’re one month and seven days old. I’m … eight hundred sixty-eight months and three days old. In case we don’t find much that we have in common, we surely will find a few strong links to each other. One will be your father. Yes, that gentle, sweet, sure-footed, sure-handed, capable set of hands who protects, feeds, cuddles you, lets you curl up and sleep as long as you like on his shoulder while cradling your heat-emitting fetal form with his manly, steady hand. Your father is my son. You are his son. Yes … stepping stones of sons.

If you wonder why my wardrobe is so limited during my visit with you, it’s because my suitcase is filled with gifts; all for you. From your great aunt Nancy, your friends Kristina, Dan and Ivaylo in Paris, me, and others. (see photo below) There’s no space left for clothes.

I hope you like what’s been chosen. One of my gifts is a baseball – a real, major league hard ball. (see second photo)

The next morning, very early: The night passed. I hardly slept, being wide awake to the amazement of you, Micah. Yes you. I showered at 5, left at 6. After I’d locked my front door and elevator’d twelve floors down with my gift-laden luggage, I saw it was still nighttime. Snow had fallen, was falling. There were no cabs so I walked in the untrammeled, fresh snowfall. At 8th avenue, a cab silently stood, invited me into its leathery warmth.

Those boarding the Boeing 777-300 had on watch caps, scarfs, winter coats but … somehow – after landing in Los Angeles (six hours later plus two hours of waiting, getting de-iced, etc) – these same folks de-planed in shorts, tank tops, their naked arms revealing dramatic tattoos. How this happened is a mystery to me, as much of a mystery as how such a massive, metalic-plastic vehicle is able to fly up and through the sky. I never get used to it, especially at the instant when tires are no longer touching tarmac.

In the not to distant future I imagine you’ll see what I mean. We’ll see if you agree. Personally: I removed my wool hat while flying over Pittsburgh, my cashmere scarf over Ohio, the wool turtleneck sweater over New Mexico, was left with a seasonally appropriate light jacket and shirt on touchdown.

Two days later: The photos say it all. (see photos)

Post Script: Your mommy and daddy took you to your second appointment with your pediatrician in Santa Monica this afternoon. You’ve gained almost two pounds in two weeks; grown an inch. The doctor’s final evaluation:

Dear Alison, here I am, a new friend of yours and an old friend of Rick’s. So many congratulations on Micah, your love grandchild. What joy he will bring you as your books have bought me for which so many thanks.
A happy New Year to you and your son and your grandson and all your close circle,
Harrietx

You have been so many things to so many people, Alison (To me, as well!) . And now, a new addition: Grandma. Or, that wise older woman who adds more cuddles, shows more concern, prays more hopes, and dreams more dreams for a new little creature on earth. Love from afar……

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Books By Alison Leslie Gold

The Potato Eater

The raw true story of Padric, a gay hustler from the Bronx who spent 1941-1965 in and out of 20 prisons

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Fill the form above to receive an exclusive preview of Alison Leslie Gold's new book, " The Woman Who Brought Matisse Back From the Dead", including a rare nude photograph of Claude Foot herself while modeling in Paris around 1950.

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tucking up their sleeves for hours twenty miles of view cheerful trim among the trees that and nothing else ‘in a gush’ suggestion of rain scarlet calico where no one loves him ‘I don’t die, I don’t fall in love’ roared like a millionaire one more wench new clean words bridle Harriet’s tongue(…)

eighty-nine shirts his strong sons rows of green mountains burnt carrot powder many times folded ‘it is possible to make the world new’ those short legs cleaned of young turnips even the woodcutter such idiocies in his roomy elbow-chair pale as clay coffee, bread and butter it’s prune oven a day in a thousand convoy(…)

confidence of those roads sad attics a smile from her could be unwelcome would be dust back from Bingo Rembrandt alone never telling Noel played the tin whistle all grace notes half-forgotten now blocking the way green knit cap almost malicious blotting pad and a pen less than no money almost defiant ‘I’ll go(…)

her own brother the best Catholic families bed-life a bosom without nipples which funeral to go to a classmate at Yale nothing in return someone from home eyes only for David L. Jenkins more than friendship sister Amy married a classmate between her shoulders without her nightgown lace, satin second floor landing helpless persons(…)

too busy to leave out of hubbub cheerful little cries quivering voice an egg for Irma any taste at all half attractive, half repellent turn by the church the Protestant parts hallow lagoons son of a dentist among olives hazy green of olives curiosity and kindness thick and damp no ignoramus courtesy itself flounced out(…)

the long voyage dangling greasy rags brackish freckles with satisfied spite male and female twins equally slapped about the beggar woman had pinched her bare feet spanking dueling scars replaced by villas paved path two women live in the ruin also turning gray like a hiker avoiding it refused to take head of not(…)